


Honey-lemon

by manhattan



Series: Layers [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon Backstory, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Dragons, Family, Friendship, Gen, Headcanon, Mild Language, mentions of Dragon Age II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-03
Updated: 2016-03-03
Packaged: 2018-05-24 11:28:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6152202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manhattan/pseuds/manhattan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A dragon and a Seeker of Truth walk into a tavern.</p><p>“I am the first dragon you’ve killed by yourself,” the dragon says.</p><p>“I am <i>fine</i>, dwarf,” the Seeker of Truth says, teeth bared.</p><p>Oh, right – Varric’s there, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Honey-lemon

**Author's Note:**

> so far, my experience in defeating dragons in nightmare mode boils down to bringing Cassandra along because everyone else dies in minutes. this is me expanding upon it (aka what the heck is this???)

The cool wave of Solas’ spell washed over Varric’s shoulder; the wounds faded into dark bruises and his arm stopped throbbing as the green color glinted on. Lavellan was sitting on a loose stone a ways from him, hands glowing a frosty blue as she slid them up and down her left leg.

The last thing he’d seen had been the purple scales of the Northern Hunter’s tail as it swung into his right side. No; the last thing he’d seen had been Lavellan running towards him with a potion in her hand, the Hunter’s claws closing around her leg, the white of her eyes when they widened. Cassandra’s sword flashing in the sun, her face red and glimmering with sweat.

“That’ll teach us to challenge a dragon, huh, Inquisitor?” Varric quipped, flexing his fingers and sounding weaker than he’d expected. He cleared his throat, frowning.

“We didn’t challenge it,” Solas said dryly, staring at the carcass lying on the other side of the dilapidated fort walls. They could see the sharp, scaly wing from where they sat, casting a shadow over them. “We survived its attack. Quite gloriously, in fact.”

The skin of the dragon’s wing had been cut cleanly. One half hung like the banners in Skyhold, waving in the wind, while the other was resting over the stone. They were still dripping, and the smell of the blood was foul.

“Glory? There was no glory in this, lethallin,” the Inquisitor said, the light in her palm spiking and diminishing. Her leather pants were ripped from knee to ankle, the fabric bloody and hanging on by threads; Varric almost winced, but then decided against it. Lavellan hadn’t, so neither would he. “We wouldn’t have survived, if not for the Seeker.”

“One could argue it is in her lineage,” Solas conceded, glancing towards the stone arch. Varric assumed this meant Cassandra was on the other side – perhaps studying the dragon still? He lifted himself off the ground, wiping his hands on his pants. His right arm still ached. “Inquisitor,” the elven man ventured, after a contemplative look towards Lavellan, “is this about your battling performance?”

“I’ll, uh,” Varric began, anxious to leave the discussion.

“We would be dead, lethallin,” cut in Lavellan, looking tired. Her eyes, usually so sharp, had softened. She was looking at her open hands – dirt-flecked, bloody, and limp. Two of her nails had been stomped into a black hue. “The Seeker did what three of us could not. What _I_ could not. Am I not supposed to be better than this? I was not capable of even fleeing the battleground.”

“Wait,” Varric said, frowning in confusion. The desire to remain a neutral party had gone with the dry spring wind. “Are you saying the Seeker finished off the Hunter all by herself?”

“Considering how little we did to weaken it,” Solas said, glancing over the wall to meet the Hunter’s immobile wing, “it would be more accurate to say she was alone in slaying it.”

He was walking off to the other side of the crumbling wall before he could think, holding his right arm and overall feeling worried, because this – oh, this was _such_ a Hawke thing to do, and he’d never thought the Seeker had that sort of recklessness in her. He thought of the Bone Pit, of a high dragon, of Hawke leaning onto her bloodied staff and laughing.

There.

“Do not,” Cassandra said – back turned, one hand against the wall – before he could even call her out. Her voice was low enough that it rasped. He wondered how many taunts she’d called out while he’d been passed out on the field. “I am not in the mood, Varric.”

“I come in peace, Seeker,” he said, voice light, but he stopped walking anyway. Lavellan and Solas were still arguing over something, voices too far away to make out words. Varric breathed, then spoke, wiping his voice of any palpable concern. “Are you okay?”

The hand on the wall curled into a shaking fist. Her gauntlets were charred, though intact. Her shield had been set against the stone, no longer glinting. The Hunter’s claws had dug into it like an arrow into soft skin, and Varric felt queasy just looking at it.

“I am fine,” she lied. It was so obvious; she was such a bad liar. Even if Varric wasn’t a superb bluffer, he would’ve still realized.

“Seeker,” Varric admonished, dragging out the word. She didn’t react, so he moved on: “Have you been healed yet?”

“Yes,” Cassandra said, and then turned to stare him down. Her jaw was set, but her eyes were somewhere faraway. “We should get to camp.”

She didn’t look too worse for the wear, which could either be very bad or very good. He calculated, but remained without a result.

Out of the four of them, the Inquisitor had looked the most exhausted (though Varric would need a mirror to assess if that was the absolute truth or not). Cassandra, unlike Lavellan’s slumped form, was still drawn tight: ready to fire. Her shoulders were still wide and pinched, and there was a hardness on her face he’d never seen before. Her cheekbones could’ve cut through stone.

Varric decided to let it go for now. It wasn’t as if they were friends, and he didn’t want them to be enemies.

“I agree,” he replied, offering a smile that was utterly rebuffed. “Do you need a hand?”

“The only thing I need is for you to stop addressing me,” Cassandra retorted, leaning over to pick up her shield. The tausset on the right side of her breastplate had been torn off, Varric noticed, and there was blood smeared across the length of her cuisse. The sun and the breeze had already shaped it into a sticky, clotting mess. Was it hers, or the dragon’s? He wanted to ask –

“We’re ready to set out,” Solas said, stepping into the sunlight.

Lavellan was half a step ahead of him, her staff serving as a walking stick. Varric had used up all of his bandages, and both Lavellan and Solas had used up all their mana, but they were still visibly injured. Conversely, Cassandra did not seem to mind. She raised her head high, looking like the noble Varric so often forgot she was, and took point.

* * *

The fire crackled by Varric’s feet, disappearing into a thin snake of smoke.

The Inquisitor had her own foot propped up on the requisition’s table, waiting for the healer on duty to finish with Cassandra’s wounds, while Solas was crafting potions to replace the ones broken in the fight. On their way back, he’d spent his time picking out shards of glass out of his tunic with Varric’s help (and live commentary).

“There are at least three broken fingers,” the mage was saying, hands glowing a calming white. Minutes earlier, they had been touching at Cassandra’s wrists, the palm and back of her hands – she hadn’t let out a single sound. “And I can’t tell if your ribs are bruised or broken.”

“I believe they are merely bruised,” Cassandra replied. _Merely_ , she said, the first words in harsh hours, and Varric sighed long enough that the smoke wafted in a different direction. Solas glanced at him for a second, then returned to the crushed elfroot leaves.

“Either way,” the healer said, now addressing Lavellan, “we should get you to Skyhold as soon as we can. There’s only so much I can do here.”

Lavellan looked up from her foot. She had been wiggling her bruised toes, and was now leaning over to tug on one. The gash on her leg was almost healed, and it would likely disappear without a scar, but the blood under her toenails had blackened, just like her fingernails. Varric wondered if she’d been stepped on, or if it had been from a bad fall. Or even from the pressure of those claws closing around her leg.

“I understand,” the Inquisitor said, straightening her back. She turned to the closest soldier, motioning for her to listen. “Have a word with our nearby agents, and tell them to recover the dragon’s body for research and harvesting—“

Varric tuned out, then, as he was wont to do when faced with Lavellan’s leader persona.

“Well, I definitely won’t be looking forward to the trip back,” he quipped, rolling back his shoulder.

Solas made an amused noise under his breath, picking out the purple-tinted leaves out of the green.

“I wonder why,” the elf said, testing out the royal elfroot’s consistency. It hadn’t dried enough; its leaves were pliant between the pads of Solas’ fingers. He put it back on the drying rack. “Personally, I find that recovering of severe injuries while on horseback is quite pleasing.”

“Y’know, Chuckles, sometimes I wonder if you’re serious.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. I often am, after all,” Solas said, smirking. It was not a warm thing. Rather, it was tired and acidic, falling short of sarcastic.

Varric chose not to reply. He was tired, his arm ached every time he breathed, and he had discovered a while ago that Bianca’s cocking stirrup had broken during the fight. At least, he thought, she hadn’t burned.

Behind him, Cassandra had risen, experimentally opening and closing her hand. She had removed her breastplate as soon as they’d reached camp, in order to bandage herself, and hadn’t yet put it back on. The wool shirt she was wearing was dark blue, but it looked black in the light.

“So,” Varric said, looking at her over his shoulder, “how are you feeling, Seeker?”

Cassandra looked from her hand to his eyes. Her own were still not-there, like she was reliving a moment long gone. Then her hand closed, dropping down to meet the curve of her hip. Right there, by the end of her shirt.

“I’m fine, Varric,” Cassandra lied, her steady voice too loud for a slumbering camp. The soldier that was writing down the Inquisitor’s orders stiffened, eyes wavering, and Lavellan herself glanced over to the Seeker. Cassandra cleared her throat, and lowered her voice. “I shall be turning in soon. We should leave as early as possible. Preferably at dawn.”

“At—?” Varric stammered, blinking. He placed his good hand on the ground, and stared up at her. There was a red line running across her jaw; he hadn’t seen it before. “I know we should get ourselves looked at, but don’t you think that’s a little too early?”

“I agree with Varric,” Solas said, keeping an eye on the mixing station. The smell of an elfroot potion mixed in with the fire’s. Varric had already associated it with hard-won battles. “It was already late by the time we got to camp. It would do us good to sleep in, after today’s battle.”

Cassandra’s nostrils flared. From the floor, Varric had the perfect vantage point, and the way her face shifted could’ve curdled milk. Her good hand closed; her bad one flinched. Bad and good control in one gesture. He couldn’t help but to feel impressed – Hawke would’ve closed both her hands.

“I suppose you’d know?” she asked, vowels strict like the tension in her jaw. Varric was familiar with Cassandra’s accent; how it thickened when she was angry, how it softened when she finished reading a satisfying book.

Solas’ eyes flickered towards the warrior, his hands stilling over the steaming cauldron. He kept his face impassive, but Solas never looked away from a brewing potion, not until it was bubbling and stable. It was enough that Lavellan cleared her throat.

“Cassandra?” the Inquisitor asked. A warning in the shape of the Seeker’s name. _We don’t have to do this here,_ was what Varric heard. Cassandra must have, as well, because her shoulders tightened and the skin of her neck curved around the bone.

“Yes,” Cassandra grit out, offering a tight nod. “Excuse me.”

Varric watched her go into the farthest tent away. They hadn’t yet chosen their tents, but it was common knowledge Solas enjoyed settling in the periphery (if not him, then Blackwall, and if not Blackwall, then someone else, someone who was not the Seeker). Cassandra’s tent was usually the closest one to the Inquisitor’s.

 _I’m fine_ , the Seeker had said. Twice heard, twice meaningless.

Varric turned to the fire again, watched the wood crackle and break apart.

* * *

They broke fast in silence. The soldiers changed shifts around them. The youngest members stole glances towards the Inquisitor, eyes wide and spines straight, and Varric could not hold back a laugh.

“Varric, please,” Solas said, but he was smirking, too.

Lavellan’s sharp eyes returned the soldiers’ gazes without malice, but she did not smile when their faces pinked. The skin under her eyes was dark and puffy; Varric assumed he wasn’t looking too good himself.

“What? It’s amusing,” Varric replied, and brought the clay cup to his mouth. The embrium tea was bitter enough to make his mouth pucker, but, for once, he drank it without complaints. Solas would be quick to defend its properties, as he usually did – or perhaps the Seeker would find some fault in his tone, as she usually did.

She hadn’t said more than two words today. Varric had told himself that he didn’t want to know, but he was proficient at reading himself, and in the end couldn’t help but to be curious. It was rare for Cassandra to hold onto her anger. He had been on the receiving end of it more than once, and he knew that her fury was hot and swift.

This wasn’t. This was tidy and stale.

“I am more surprised that they even know who I am,” Lavellan said, after she’d swallowed the rest of her bread. The cheese today was good – the taskmaster of the camp must’ve known the Inquisitor would visit. “Most recruits do not.”

“An elven woman eating next to the only Seeker in the Inquisition?” Solas asked, swirling the tea in his cup. “I’d be more concerned if they didn’t recognize you.”

“Chuckles, are you implying that the Inquisition’s solders are idiots?”

Solas chuckled, but did not reply; he merely brought the cup to his mouth. Unlike Varric, his face did not twist at the flavor. He was likely relishing the cleansing effect of the infusion, or whatever the tea was supposed to do (something about cobwebs and lungs). Varric had tried memorizing Solas’ teachings once already, but it hadn’t ended well. Ask him to list off the finest Marcher wines and ales, and he’d do it – but tea? Tea wasn’t his thing.

“They are putting their lives on the lines for us,” the Inquisitor said, staring at the black under her fingernails. It would take the color weeks to vanish. Her index finger pressed into the thumb’s nail. “Think of them what you will, but do not speak ill of our troops while I’m around.”

“I apologize,” Solas said, without looking at her. His eyes were focused the bottom of his cup. “It was in poor taste.”

Varric sipped the rest of his slowly-cooling tea, and finally glanced at Cassandra. Her hand was still bandaged, and they hadn’t been able to replace the missing tausset, but she looked the same. _If it weren’t for her eyes_ , Varric thought –

“The horses are ready, Inquisitor,” one of the soldiers announced, eyes drooping with sleep. One of the night-guards, then.

Lavellan brushed her hands against her pants, leaving telltale flour marks, and got up on her feet. The healer had done fine work, even under pressure.

“Thank you,” the Inquisitor said, and made way for the stables. Three Trout Farm camp paled in comparison to Caer Bronach, but the Hunter’s perch had been too far south for them to travel back. And Varric had been hoping to see Hawke, in case she’d stayed around – but sometimes things didn’t went the way he planned.

Cassandra got up on her feet without a word, following after her; Solas and Varric exchanged a look, then, but said nothing. Varric’s knees were stiff with sleep still, and, like all dwarves, he loathed riding on horseback.

The grimace on his face wasn’t mirrored by Solas, but the elven man didn’t seem too pleased with the course of events, either.

“Well,” Solas murmured, walking beside Varric, “at least the herbalists will be pleased. It’s not often that we come across a mature wyvern _and_ a dragon.”

“Chuckles, if I didn’t know you, I’d say you were an optimist.”

Solas didn’t laugh, if only because Cassandra was staring at the two of them. Varric was closer, though, and didn’t miss the twitch of his lips, just as he felt his own mouth quirk.

“If we make good time, we can set up camp in Ghelen’s pass,” the Inquisitor was saying, hands planted against the map on the requisition table. There was a little smudge of mud by the corner; Lavellan flicked a finger at it without shame, then wiped her finger on her slacks. "And reach Skyhold in the morning.”

“A sound plan, if exhausting,” Solas said, stepping up to look at the map as well. Varric stretched gingerly, his shoulder still creaky, and stared at Cassandra while the two elves discussed routes.

To ask how she was doing would probably open up a can of worms. Cassandra’s jaw was still set, her cheekbones still protuberant, and her eyes were fixed on the horizon. The dawn sky in Crestwood was a shade of light gray-blue, despite the fact the weather had cleared since the largest rift had been closed.  Her eyes were the same.

“Hey, Seeker,” Varric said, without stepping closer to her. It was safer to keep a distance, just in case. Cassandra’s arms were long. “Something on your mind?”

Cassandra looked down at him first, a wide-eyed thing that shifted towards the two elves as smoothly as a river. Lavellan and Solas were busy, though, leant over the table and the maps, so she glanced at him again.

“No,” Cassandra said, but no longer looked towards the brightening sky.

“Because it certainly seems—“

“What does it matter to you, Varric?” she cut in, before he could finish his retort. Thankfully, she’d kept her voice low, but the way her accent had thickened didn’t put Varric at ease. “Why must you pester me when you are clearly aware that I am not at my best?”

“You aren’t?” he gasped, eyes wide, before he could think better of it.

“Spare me your pretty deceits, dwarf. I am in no mood to sort them out.” She sounded exactly like Aveline would’ve, were she Nevarran.

There was a tug in Varric’s chest, suddenly; he was aching for Kirkwall’s piers and the smell of seagull crap and felt stupid for it. The last time he’d been in Kirkwall, it had been still charred and crumbling – healing, yes, but still half-dead.

Above him, Cassandra’s eyes were hard.

“They’re not—“ he sighed, a finger scratching at his temple. “They’re not _deceits_ , Seeker. It’s a genuine question. It doesn’t take a professional writer and gambler—such as myself, for example—to see you’re feeling out of it.”

“I am aware,” she grit out, risking another glance in the Inquisitor’s direction. It was endearing, a little. Then she looked at him again, frowning. “It would help if you would cease your endless questioning.”

“It would help if you told me what’s wrong,” he said, and had to keep his arms from crossing when hers did. “If you’re not comfortable—“

“I am not,” Cassandra grunted, shoulders tightening. Both her hands were still.

Three seconds passed before he sighed, with just the right amount of disappointment. It had been Hawke’s favorite manipulation tactic when it came to Isabela. Cassandra had nothing to do with Isabela, but she still required approval, whether she realized it or not. Her shoulders went a little slack.

“But I—appreciate the concern,” she gritted out, looking as though the words had been ripped out of her mouth with hot irons. Varric found himself smiling, and –

“Solas has advised me to take another route,” Lavellan said, rolling the smallest map and sliding it in her bag. “We will take the Imperial Highway and scale upriver instead. If the weather is good, we can reach Skyhold by sundown.”

Cassandra’s shoulders were tight again, her face closed off. Varric held back an honest sigh, this time, and trailed after the Inquisitor.

* * *

He’d have to send his regards to the Ambassador. Sunk into a hot bath with a glass of Hirol’s Lava Burst, staring at the ceiling of his room – was there any better way to relax after surviving a dragon attack?

Varric sighed, letting the heat from the drink dissipate. A Hirol was strong enough to make even a stout dwarf think twice, but they’d come across a crate in Crestwood, and he’d had it on his mind ever since Bianca’s cocking stirrup had broken. He sent a fond look her way, lying on his bed in wait.

Dagna had expressed great interest in getting her hands all over Bianca, and though Varric was tired enough to consider it, he knew he wouldn’t allow the alchemist to fix her.

He swallowed down another gulp of fiery liquid, and coughed, setting the glass down on the night stand. His legs were still a little shaky, and his ass hurt like a bitch, but at least he could rest, now. The Inquisitor would stick around for a few days, so they could catch their breaths. Varric planned on doing just that, along with writing a few pages – his editor had been quite insistent in her letters.

He sank deeper into the bath, stretching his arms. His shoulder was still sore, despite the healing session the Inquisitor had required them to take. Cassandra had been more than ready to go into her quarters by the time they’d climbed off their horses, but Lavellan hadn’t taken no for an answer.

It was odd, that. Cassandra was always careful enough not to risk injuries, no matter how haggard she felt. But then again, Cassandra hadn’t been at the top of her game since the battle against the Northern Hunter.

Varric reached for his glass again, mind galloping.

* * *

The tavern’s windows were open to let the sun in. The smell of grass and hay rolled into the room when the horsemaster passed, leading three young mares along the yard. Varric nodded at Cabot, and found Cassandra sitting at the counter, nursing a sweet-smelling drink.

He’d been expecting her not to be at her usual spot beside the training dummies—she was predictable—but the tavern? His left eyebrow raised as he climbed onto the stool next to her.

“Ugh,” Cassandra said, looking at him. Her good hand was wrapped around the glass.

“Now, now. Is that any way to greet a comrade, Seeker?” Varric quipped, winking at her.

“What do you want, Varric,” she droned, and brought the drink to her mouth. Varric smelled lemon, now, not just the sweetness. Her face didn’t scrunch up.

“Come on, Seeker. I want to know what’s wrong.”

“Why?” Cassandra asked, leaning her elbow on the counter to look at him. She looked better now that she’d washed up, though the red line under her jaw was still angry-looking.

He didn’t know why he cared, but he did. Varric made a gesture with his hand towards Cabot – his usual – and then shrugged, still smiling.

“You haven’t been yourself lately.” The look on her face warned him he was nearing dangerous territory. He backtracked: “I know we’re not friends, Seeker, but that doesn’t mean I enjoy watching you stomp around like this.”

Swift fury was amusing. The stale one was not.

Cassandra straightened her back, swirling the honey-lemon around in her glass. It was a good remedy for sore throats, according to Solas. Varric was once again transported to the decrepit castle, a roar of a dragon between them, Cassandra’s taunts echoing in the yard – and had to look away, feeling guilty.

“Have you ever defeated a high dragon by yourself, Varric?” she asked, eyes on the golden liquid. Her voice was low, as if she was afraid the Iron Bull would hear her mention dragons (Lavellan was still nursing her hangover).

“The only thing I can defeat by myself are angry Guild members and my writer’s block,” Varric replied, and felt satisfied at the sight of Cassandra’s mouth quirking. It wasn’t a smile, but it was on its way to becoming one.

Then it faded.

Cabot slid Varric’s barley his way, and walked into the back room. _Smart man_ , Varric thought, and forced himself not to laugh.

“I had never battled a dragon by myself.” Cassandra brought the glass to her mouth. “My brother was the only person to do it, that I know of.”

 _Ah_ , Varric thought, all the amusement gone from his body and replaced by realization.

“The dragon Anthony and his team had been hunting turned out to have a mate,” she went on, eyes glassy. “Only three people survived. Anthony struck the killing blow, while his comrades were unconscious on the field.”

“Andraste’s arse, Seeker,” Varric let out, without meaning to.

Cassandra only drank the rest of her honey-lemon. There were drops of undiluted honey stuck to the rim of the glass, to the bottom of her mouth. Varric licked his lips and stared at the warm barley inside his cup.

“I cannot recall what I thought about while facing the Northern Hunter,” she said. “I can only remember what I thought when the beast fell, and I looked around to find the rest of you.”

“Seeker…”

“I am here, above all, to protect the Inquisitor,” she said, ignoring him. “I could not. I could not, and I battled a dragon instead of attempting to get her—and you—out of the field.”

“Seeker,” Varric said, sterner, “no one would be able to pull out three unconscious teammates out of a dragon’s way. Trust me, I—“ he sighed, remembering the Bone Pit’s burning grounds, the smell of rotting carrion, “I would know. You did the right thing.”

“I was selfish, Varric.” The heel of her boots pressed into the floor, the tips dragging against the counter. Her boots had already been cleaned. “I should have no excuse. I forgot myself in the battle.”

“I can’t believe you’re beating yourself over this,” he said, half-laughing. Had the chuckles sounded panicked? Varric thought so, and therefore eased into a slower lull. “Do you know how many people have faced a high dragon and lived?”

“You have,” she accused, frowning at the counter. “Twice, now.”

“I don’t count,” Varric laughed, bringing one hand to hide his smile. “Hawke all but dragged me into the battle. Had I known, I would probably have skipped town.”

“I don’t believe that.”

Neither did he. Varric would’ve followed Hawke to the ends of the world. Maybe he had, even. Kirkwall had burnt to the ground, after all. Whatever it was now, it was no longer home. Only a facsimile of it, with a facsimile of a brother.

He moved on – this time, it wasn’t about him.

“The point stands, Seeker. You should be proud, not beating yourself up over it. I – well, personally, I’m thankful to remain alive.” He brought the cup to his lips, and munched on the few barley grains that had slipped through the grinder.

Cassandra’s jaw worked; her cheekbones were sharp again.

“I never wished to be responsible for your lives,” she eventually said. “I’ve sworn to protect the Inquisitor, of course, but – this is—“

She didn’t finish her sentence. Instead, her eyes slipped into his. Varric almost, almost looked away. He cleared his throat, hands tight around the cup. The last time he’d seen eyes so cold had been after Leandra.

“She’s fine,” Varric found himself saying, knuckles aching. “The Inquisitor is fine—hell, we _all_ are, Seeker. Don’t – don’t beat yourself up like this.”

“If I don’t,” Cassandra said, those cold eyes drifting back to the empty glass, “who will?”

 _The Chantry_ , he thought, _the Maker, his Bride_ – and then said:

“Come on, Seeker. I’m here, aren’t I?” he replied, smirking. “Your most favorite prisoner, ever-ready to bring your mistakes to light. Honestly, you should be thankful.”

And finally – finally, Cassandra laughed. It wasn’t the solution for whatever this was, not really, but it was a step in the right direction. Varric’s smirk softened into a smile.

“As if I would ever be thankful to someone like you,” the Seeker said, and clinked her empty glass to his. The sound didn’t echo across the tavern, just in his skull. A soft chime in exchange for the words she wouldn’t say.

Varric obliged, with a relaxed hand, and drank the rest of his barley. Outside, and through the tavern’s open windows, the sun seemed a little brighter, just like the color of honey-lemon.

He swallowed it all in, and felt satisfied.

**Author's Note:**

> i went with barley bc i can't recall whether there is coffee in the DA universe, and there is no way in hell Varric wouldn't need a pick-me-up after a battle with a dragon


End file.
